


Off the Record

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, District Attorney, F/M, Interns & Internships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-01 22:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: “I'm an intern.” She doesn't know why she says it other than she doesn't want him thinking she's getting ahead of herself, putting herself on the same level as Mark Draper.“I know.” He doesn't seem bothered by the fact. If anything, it seems to soften his opinion of her. “I expect he'll be jealous you talked to me.”Will works for the DA, Mac is a summer intern at CNN.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Heather for prompting me to finish this fic by unintentionally prompting me to start another.
> 
> Later chapters follow a very rough pre-series timeline if anyone is worried about spoilers.

“Career politician?” He asks without introduction, leaning into the space between them.

She glances over at him, considers ignoring him, but then he grins at her, suddenly looking sweet, almost boyish, much younger than the well tailored suit suggests.

“No.” She's not shrugging him off, not writing him off completely, but technically she's here for work even if she is off the clock, even if she's the only one from the office her boss had invited. He had thought she might want to rub some elbows he had said, like she hadn't spent part of her teenage years as her father's shadow at events like this, like she hadn't already met half the people in the room. It was a political fundraiser, something that had ceased to impress her years ago, but she's wearing her wide-eyed impressed look, nodding at whatever seemingly witty remark her boss makes as she trails along in his wake. Or she had been until someone had skirted the line to speak to her.

“Not yet.” He proffers and she glances at him again with a quick shake of her head.

“Not a politician. Not a diplomat.” She knows she sounds bored. She is bored. She should be pretending she isn’t, but he hasn't seemed to notice, doesn't seem to care, so she doesn't bother pretending otherwise.

“What then?” He smiles, more charming but just as at ease. He's young, not as young as she is, but he's younger than the rest of the men here and he hasn't seemed to notice. He's comfortable in his own skin, wearing his tux with the ease and confidence she's hoping to exude as she resists the urge to tug at the strap of her dress.

It wasn't the dress that was making her uncomfortable. She had worn it before, worn it to events like this, had packed it carefully on top of the rest of her clothes, being sure not to let it wrinkle in her suitcase, knowing one of her father's old friends might call with an offer for lunch, a chance to do some networking at a dinner party. It was her role, listen don't speak, and the disquiet she still felt at being back on American soil after two years abroad, that made her want to slip away, slide into something less conspicuous.

“I'm with CNN.” They're the same words she's used every day for the last few weeks, parroting them in the clipped tones of the producers in the newsroom. It's an automatic reply, one she realizes is wholly incomplete when he raises his eyebrows, waiting for more.

“News producer.” She feels compelled to add, smiling politely to cover the slip. She hadn't wanted to give that much away. She hadn't wanted to get sucked into a conversation with a stranger when she was supposed to be working.

“Not a reporter then?”

She laughs at that, genuine amusement bubbling up at his cautious optimism. He's relieved, but not, she thinks, because of any animus toward the press. He seems genuinely interested and not the least bit disappointed that she hadn't confessed to being part of a diplomatic envoy.

“Not a fan?” She means it as a bit of a tease but he takes her seriously, answering honestly without hesitation.

“I have to be careful right now.”

“Oh.” She smiles again, politely, not quite understanding, but knowing it wouldn't be wise to ask. You don't ask someone why they’re being hounded by the press, especially not someone you’ve just met.

She sees his eyebrows rise. It's a more restrained gesture this time, professional curiosity she realizes. She had caught him off guard before, although she can't imagine why.

“You have no idea who I am.”

She can't deny it outright, it's too flimsy a lie to hold up to any amount of scrutiny, but she doesn't want to bruise his ego, even if it seems, refreshingly, he may not mind that what he's said is true.

“I haven't been here very long. The States.” She clarifies quickly, lest he think she means the party.

She's expecting the usual response, the skeptical look, a question or two about her nationality. Already he had surprised her by not asking which bureau she belonged to. It would be out of the ordinary, but not entirely unheard of, to have foreign coverage of an event like this. Already tonight she’s fielded half a dozen questions. His certainly wouldn't be the last, but he refrains, holding out his hand instead.

“Will McAvoy, with the DA’s office.”

She takes his hand automatically. His palm is warm against hers and for a moment she doesn't realize that he's chuckled. It must have shown on her face, her confusion giving way to startled respect as she realizes who he is.

“You’re younger than I expected. You, your case,” She fumbles, stumbles again for a second, wondering if she should apologize, wondering if she can without digging herself a bigger hole. “It's been all over the papers.”

“And TV.” He says lightly, taking her misstep in stride, gently redirecting the conversation, adding his own clarification. “It was a byproduct of wanting to get the hell out of dodge. I graduated early. People tend to chalk it up to ambition but I'll let you in on a secret.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” She asks, returning his smile, equal parts relieved and amused, finds herself leaning closer. “I do have a press badge.”

“Off the record then.” He says it so easily, so casually, she wonders if his play at caution earlier had been for show and yet she doubts it. She knows he’s been hounded by the press, no one has managed to get him on the record, few reporters had managed a no comment, his silence was adding fuel to the fire, yet here he was talking to her.

“Off the record.” She echoes back instinctively, unwilling to risk him clamming up. She wanted to hear what he had to say, not out of any sort of professional curiosity, they're both past that she thinks, but out of genuine personal interest.

“There's too much corn in Nebraska.” He confides in a whisper and for a moment she's too startled to say anything and then she laughs. She laughs and then bites her lip to stop herself, the sheepish look on his face a charming apology for the heads they're turning.

“No one laughs at that.” He says with genuine surprise after a moment. “It's a stupid thing to say and not at all true.”

“It isn't?” She asks because she thinks perhaps he isn't exaggerating as much as he says he is. If it wasn't the corn, there was too much of something in Nebraska, certainly enough to send him running straight through law school. She couldn't be sure, the papers weren't specific, but she knew he had been with the DA's office for five years, and she can't imagine him being much more than thirty.

“Not entirely. The corn can be kind of beautiful if you like that kind of thing.”

“I've never,” she says because it only seems right to match his honesty with her own, “seen corn growing. Not in person. I've seen it on film of course, but I've never seen it.”

“Never driven around upstate?”

“Just the Finger Lakes, wine country. I spent a long weekend there once. There wasn't much to do.”

“Not recently then?”

“No, oh.” She adds realizing how much she's given away. Normally she wasn't embarrassed by being the youngest person in the room, she had an impressive resume, but it paled in comparison to his. While he was trying the city's biggest case of the year, she would be lucky if they let her see the copy for the morning broadcast. “I was in high school.”

“No weekend long wine tour then?”

“Not really my thing.” She replies with a half shrug, feeling a bit self-conscious. It wasn't a fair assessment. She hadn't drunk much since her twenty first birthday earlier in the year, hadn't drunk much more than cheap beer at university before that. She liked wine, she was pretty sure, but she didn't know how she felt about wine tours.

“Grape pie?” He seems hopeful about this, delighted by her possible culinary exploits.

“Yes.” She smiles with a slow grin, eyes crinkling as his excitement. There's a part of her that wants to say more, encourage him to continue, but she can't seem to find the words to string together, an awkward saving grace.

“So not an entirely wasted trip.”

“No,” she says trying to tamp down on the smile that's still growing. She knows she should stop, that at best she looks like a fawning idiot, at worst anyone who glances over will think that they're flirting. She should stop but it takes a concerted effort, a quick glance around the room, to get herself back under control.

“Mark seems to have gotten lost.”He  comments, mistaking her scan of the room for concern.

“Who?”

“Your colleague.” He clarifies and she feels the sting of embarrassment as she realizes he's referring to her boss.

“I'm an intern.” She doesn't know why she says it other than she doesn't want him thinking she's getting ahead of herself, putting herself on the same level as Mark Draper.

“I know.” He doesn't seem bothered by the fact. If anything, it seems to soften his opinion of her. “I expect he'll be jealous you talked to me.”

“Mark,” it feels weird to say his name, to be talking about her boss like this, like they knew each other personally, like he hadn't asked her along because people like Will McAvoy were more likely to open up to a young doe-eyed girl with an English accent than they were to a stodgy old man. “is-”

“Is either hoping you would run into me or could never imagine that you might.” He fills in for her and she looks away to hide the heat she feels rising to her face.

He wasn't wrong but she would never say so, never say something like that, especially not here in a room of her father's friends and colleagues, in a room full of what she hopes are future sources.

“It's all right. I'm allowed to say stuff like that.”

She sees him smiling at her out of the corner of her eye and turns back toward him, not quite looking at him. “He's a great journalist.”

“Yes, he is.” Will agrees and she offers him a shy smile, relieved to be back on safer ground.

“I should-” She nods toward the rest of the room, hesitating even after she spots Mark along the far wall deep in conversation with a journalist she recognizes from NBC.

“Do you have a card?” Will asks as she shifts back, stepping away to reestablish a more professional distance between the two of them.

“A card?” For a second she can't imagine what he means and then she remembers the small stack of business cards she'd had printed last week at the behest of one of the more senior interns. She would need them she'd been told. She would need them and she hadn't thought to carry any with her.

“I-” She should apologize but she winces instead, relieved when Will pulls out a business card and hands it to her before pulling out another along with a pen from inside his jacket.

“Do you have a phone set up where you're staying?”

“Yeah.” She nods almost following up with, I have to, before realizing she doesn't want to remind him she works for the press.

“Would you mind?” He turns the card over and holds it out to her with the pen.

She quickly scribbles her name, pauses over the number, double checking it before handing the card back to him.

“MacKenzie.” He reads and she smiles, feeling herself flush.

“I work late most days. Don't be afraid of calling. I'll still be up.” The flush deepens. She must look like an idiot, sound like one for suggesting he call her in the middle of the night but she doesn't take it back.

“Alright.” He offers her a quick smile, professional, proper, but there's something about it that makes her shiver. “It was nice to meet you, MacKenzie.”

“You too.” She keeps her smile demure, holds out her hand, carefully stepping back when he releases his grip. “Give me a call if you ever want to go on the record about the corn.”

  
It's a ridiculous thing to say but it makes him laugh, the sound of it following her across the room as she leaves him standing where he had found her, grinning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will.” She breathes out and she thinks he's noticed that he’s surprised her because his voice is light and warm in a way it hadn't been the night they met.
> 
> “I thought I should call.” He offers and she can hear the smile in his voice, in the lazy way the words slip off his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left comments, especially those of you who wanted to see more. This definitely took on a life of its own, so there's two sections (posted as separate chapters) that run through the spring of 2003 and what would otherwise be the start of the pilot.

When he calls her the following week she has her nose buried in a book on the Balkans, reference material and notepads scattered over the surface of her bed and nearby desk. It's almost midnight but she can hear Susie on the phone down the hall, yelling at her boyfriend in Colorado so at first she's confused, dropping her pen to jam a finger in her ear.

“Hello, sorry, yes this is MacKenzie.”

She hadn't expected him to call. She has his card tucked into the pocket of her binder for safe keeping, but she wasn't expecting to hear from him. His case was still blowing up, Andrew on the local crime beat had predicted there was at least another week of testimony before things started wrapping up. He should be working late, prepping for court in the morning, so when her phone rings, when she picks it up, he's the last person she's expecting to hear on the other end of the line.

“Will.” She breathes out and she thinks he's noticed that he’s surprised her because his voice is light and warm in a way it hadn't been the night they met.

“I thought I should call.” He offers and she can hear the smile in his voice, in the lazy way the words slip off his tongue.

“Yeah?” She isn't offering much, but she's trying to figure out why he's calling her. She had offered, but she hadn't expected, hadn't thought to hope that he’d been anything but polite. If he was looking to break a story he must know dozens of journalist who had more clout than her, who at the very least had a hope of seeing their name on the byline, but when he gives her an address she jots it down and agrees to meet him the following night.

 

The place is tucked between a couple of storefronts in Brooklyn, the dark green door sunk back behind the surrounding siding, the bouncer looking more like a man out for a smoke than any sort of security, but he stops her when she lingers double checking the number pasted on the door in gold foil.

“Sorry ma’am.” He says politely, “You'll have to move along.”

“I have ID.” She fumbles it out of her pocket, practically tossing it at him in her haste. 

“I’m meeting,” she starts to say before she realizes he's checking a list he had pulled out of his pocket. He's not blowing her off because she looks too young, this place has a guest list, a list she's apparently on because she's ushered off the street and pointed toward the back of the establishment.

It isn't a bar in the way she expected it to be. There's obvious drinking going on, but the decor, the smattering of tables and armchairs, reminds her more of a gentleman's club than any bar she's ever seen.

Will's sitting in the back corner, chair tipped toward the door but turned toward the table, working.

She pauses a couple of feet away from him, takes a couple of louder steps, clears her throat quietly. “Will?”

“MacKenzie.” He turns, offering her a smile, gesturing toward the seat across from him even as she hangs back in case he needs clear his work away.

“It's personal.” He nods toward the table when he sees her looking. “There isn't anything here to worry about. Would you like a drink?”

She sits, draws her chair up to the table and nods with a soft smile. She isn't sure what to order, isn't sure how to explain that exactly, because surely she ought to know, but Will orders for her, waiting for her nod of assent before waving the waiter off.

“I don't normally drink here.” He offers, clearing the table, slipping papers and notepads into his briefcase, “but the press.”

“I almost walked right by.” She confides, relieved when he grins.

“I should have warned you.”

He could have she realizes but he hadn't, a test perhaps, but he had invited her here. Surely he wouldn't have if he didn't think he had a reason to trust her. Security could keep the press from loitering across the street but that wouldn't stop them from waiting down the block.

“I have to confess, aside from the drink menu, discretion is the main draw of this place. It's a bit,” he lingers for a second considering, “urban for my country boy sensibilities.”

Stuffy she thinks he might have wanted to say, expensive, nouveau riche she isn't sure, but something has changed since that night at the fundraiser. He was being careful around her and it wasn't because she worked for the press.

“How did you find out?” She’s curious. It's been years since she's been somewhere where the name McHale didn't immediately raise eyebrows, raise questions in elite circles. These last few weeks had been an odd sort of reprieve. 

It's possible he had run into someone who knew her father, but he would have needed the time, would have needed to mention her.

“When I landed my first big case-,”

“No,” she shakes her head, surprising herself by cutting him off. “About me, my father.”

“The ambassador?” Will shrugs with the casual ease she recognizes from the other night. “I sent a paralegal to the library at the UN.”

“You?” She sputters, trying to draw a line between their first encounter and the United Nations.

He grins, obviously pleased he had managed to surprise her, seemingly unworried that he could have offended her by admitting he’d had her checked out. No one would fault him, but most people wouldn't admit to checking up on someone in open company let alone to the person at the center of the inquiry.

“I called the BBC first.” He fills in for her. “It seemed like a long shot, but no first time intern shows up properly dressed to an event like that. I thought there was a chance you had worked for them in the past. The woman at the desk laughed herself silly.”

By in the past you mean now, she wants to say. You thought I lied to you, she wants to say. There's lots of things she wants to say, but the only thing she can say is, “I'm an American.”

“I know.” He holds up a hand, not to stop her, there's nothing forceful in the gesture, but to give her pause, let her brain catch up to her mouth. “Susie schooled me. The first time I called, your line rang over to the one in the hall.”

“Susie?” She frowns at him, carefully resists the urge to worry her bottom lip; her mother was forever telling her she ought to stop. .

“She thought I was your brother.”

“Steven? Oh, no you're-” It all clicks into place. Susie and her endless calls on the phone in the common room, the verbal sparring match she had gotten in when one of the other girls had called her an English snob at a hall meet and greet. He must have called on Sunday when she had been talking to Steven otherwise the answering machine would have picked up. Steve always called her at three after he got back to his student flat from dinner with their parents.

“You called on Sunday?” She knows she looks confused, looks surprised, but he doesn't seem to mind, doesn't mind filling in what he thinks she wants to know while she spins through the implications. 

He had called her less than three days after they had met. He could have called the BBC the morning after the gala, but that seemed unlikely. He had been in court all day, the judge had cut the midday recess short. She had checked. He could have called on Saturday but would anyone have answered, she isn't sure. She isn't sure if she's pleased that he may have called her before he’d checked up on her. Had it been Susie that piqued his interest or had he finally come to his senses?

“I don't think I did a very good job of convincing her I had honorable intentions. She hung up on me before I could ask her to leave a message for you.”

“She never mentioned-” Mac shakes her head. “Susie has a lot of guy drama.”

Will smiles knowingly, as if he can tell just how hard she's trying not to laugh at the obvious understatement. 

“I hope you don't mind-”

“No, it's fine.” She cuts him off again then winces reflexively when she realizes. “Sorry.”

“You didn't give me a lot to go on.” He explains, acknowledging the interruption with raised eyebrows. “I was curious, personally.” He finishes more quietly. “I hope you're not expecting a big scoop.”

“I'm an intern.” She reminds him, although she knows that seems not to matter to him. “the only scoop I'm anticipating comes in a waffle cone from the place down the block.”

“That can be arranged.” He says with a boyish grin. “Do you have a favorite flavor?”

“Susie didn't tell you?” She can't help but tease because she thinks he might be serious and she doesn't want him getting ahead of himself. 

“She forgot to mention it in between calling me hopeless and suggesting I take a long walk.” He deadpans and she can't tell if he's teasing or not. She's certainly heard worse from Susie.

“Vanilla happens to be a particular favorite of mine. It's rather-”

“If you say boring like me,” He cuts in over her disclosure of a similar sentiment.

“You'll what?” She challenges and he laughs, grinning as the waiter returns to set their drinks on the table.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes as she reaches to slide her beer closer to her, the condensation cool under her fingertips. “I've spent this whole time telling you how much I already know. You must want to say something. You must have questions.”

She did. She had. She’d made a mental list on the way here, carefully outlining the most important points so she didn't miss them. It was part of being a journalist: know the questions you want answers to, ask them, ask them again if you have to, and listen. Persistence was important but so was listening. It built trust. She wonders if he knows that, if he wants to show he trusts her or if he's asking her to teach him to trust her. She's not sure which she prefers. She's not sure what she's supposed to be asking. She's forgotten.

“You're from Nebraska.” It isn't a question but she sips her beer, giving him an opportunity to answer if he wants it.

“Born and raised.” He swirls his drink, takes a sip and smiles appreciatively before holding it out to her. “If you've never had a good whiskey.”

“This is one?” She eyes the glass cautiously but takes it from him, takes the smallest sip she can, hoping not to embarrass herself. It burns going down but it's smoother than she had expected, warmer than she had anticipated.

She hands the glass back to him, watches him savor another sip. 

“I have a brother and three sisters. You don't strike me as an only child.”

“Brother, two sisters. I'm the oldest. There's five years between Elizabeth and I.”

“Were your parents?” She doesn't finish. She doesn't know what's worse, the implied cliche or the quiet look that’s come over Will's face.

“They were highschool sweethearts. They weren't exactly planning, but they were already married, if that's what has you worried.” His answer is light, as warm as his other replies had been, and she feels it color her cheeks.

“I'm sorry.” She looks away, trying to hide the embarrassed flush, only to snap her gaze back to his when he reaches across the table to lay his hand on her arm.

“It's a cliche for a reason.”

“I-” She sighs. “I feel like I'm prying.”

“I offered.” He reminds her, waiting until she takes another sip of her beer to raise his eyebrows.

“Nebraska wasn't kind to you. I shouldn't- we should talk about something else.”

“Such as?”

“You don't want to talk about work.” She throws out and his eyebrows creep back up.

“I don't?”

“Do you always ask- Are you always this expressive?” She asks. “It can't be helpful in court.”

“No,” he shrugs, sets his glass down to regard her. “No, I'm not normally this expressive. After the gala I had to go home and ice my face, all that emoting was quite strenuous.”

“You're not,” she sighs and narrows her eyes a bit, watches the look pull out another smile. “I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

“No you weren't.” She's trying to be serious, but his grin has her giggling and the words come out bubbly and breathless. 

“Why law?” She asks when she manages to control herself, slow her heart rate down to something resembling normal.

“Football wasn't going to pan out.” He answers honestly but doesn't elaborate when she draws her eyebrows down in confusion. 

“You don't strike me as-”

“A jock? Or is it the football? I played baseball too.”

“You did?” She finds there's something she likes about that idea. 

“Do you ever go to games?” She tries to sound offhand, uninvested, like she isn't the one who might be getting ahead of herself this time.

“Sometimes. I have a pretty good cable package.”

She's confused by this but neglects to ask him what he means until he realizes she knows next to nothing about sports, with the exception of soccer, and he explains laughing lightly that he's happy watching most sporting events and that it's less about the live experience than she had assumed.

The conversation meanders from there, questions and comments thrown together until Will glances regretfully at his watch and groans. “I hate to tell you this but the ice cream place down the block is definitely closed.”

“Why, what-?” she checks her watch, checks it against the clock by the door, and sighs. It's well past one. “Last call,” she flicks the side of her empty glass with a smirk. “Eight AM double espresso here I come.”

“Coffee,” he scoffs a bit at the idea but he’s smiling at her, teasing.

“A girl has to stay awake somehow,” she winks and the flushes, resisting the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. “I didn't mean-”

He laughs then, deep and rumbling as he pulls back her chair, hands her the sweater she had draped over the back of her chair, lays a hand on her shoulder in apology. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I didn't.” She insists but there's laughter lingering in his eyes so she doesn't press him. “You can't see me home can you?”

“I'm drinking in a near windowless building.” He says regretfully. “I can hail you a cab.”

She lets him tuck her into the cab, lets him slip the cabbie more than enough cash to cover her fare as he makes the guy swear he'll wait to leave until she's inside even though the door is ten feet from the well lit street.

“I'll call you,” he promises as he steps away. She nods hoping he will.

 

He calls her again on Sunday, this time later, after Steven has called. Same place, same time he asks, and while they don't really talk she doesn't mind as much as she thought she would because she’s going to get to see him again.

He orders her a beer, orders himself another whiskey, different ones from last time and he asks her more about her work, asks if the internship is useful, if it's clarifying what she wants, or if there’s something else she's getting out of it. He lets her ask whatever she wants, answers even when, maybe she thinks, she's asking questions he's never thought of answers to.

It continues, him calling her, the two of them meeting up sporadically for a couple of hours during the week. The summer speeds by. She fetches coffees and sits in on as many meetings and broadcasts as she can. He waits for the sentencing hearing for his big case, picks up a couple of smaller cases, misdemeanors, plea deals for higher profile cases.

At first they meet up at the bar, but then he invites her to his place for the 4th. 

“I don't want you to be lonely.” He winks at her when he asks and she laughs, doesn't stop to think when she puts on lipstick and a new pair of jeans, tugs her red white and blue t-shirt down at the hem.

His place is small, homey with a window and a fire escape that look out over a parking lot which is more empty space than she's seen in weeks so she marvels at it loudly, a little bit drunk off the sips of scotch she keeps stealing whenever he gets up to get her another hot dog or pull the bowl of watermelon out of the fridge. 

They stay up late listening for the boom of distant fireworks. When he drops her off outside the NYU dorms in the early hours of the fifth, they’re both laughing, drunk off a little more than his bottle of single malt.

He won't let her spend the night, even if he's a good old boy not a gentleman- he's slipped his hands past hems, past zippers too many times now for to her to have any illusions about that- but he doesn't mind her stopping by, doesn't mind that she spends more time at his place than in her room.

Most of the time they talk about little things, the street vendor he likes to buy bagels from, the cheap nail place she had found around the corner from the newsroom, but during their last night together he tells her about his father and she cries because she wonders if this is his way of saying goodbye.

He had promised to see her off to the airport but she had been telling him that it was all right, that she knew he was busy, that she didn't mind as long as he promised to answer when she called after she'd landed. 

She had been trying to tell him not to come because she can't bare the thought of saying goodbye and watching him move on with his life when maybe, she thinks, this might be something. She had tried to tell him not to come, but he shows up anyway as she's shoving her suitcase into the back of a cab. He's holding flowers. She takes them from him, takes his hand, and holds it in a death grip until they reach the airport forty five minutes later. She hasn't said a word, hasn't heard a word he's said if he's said anything at all, but when he pulls open her door, holds out his hand, she makes herself pay attention.

He brushes a kiss against the top of her head, holds her close for a second, then gently pushes her away, holding her by the shoulders. He smiles, runs his thumb under one of her eyes. 

“Call me when you land.” He says. “Promise me.” And she does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sees him sporadically after that, catches glimpses of his broadcasts, but misses most of his rise to ACN’s top anchor, tries to ignore it as best she can, but she's seen more than she'd realized, when Charlie Skinner shows up, sliding carelessly onto the barstool beside her.

She tells him about meeting Brian the week he comes to visit her between spring terms. She doesn't have any work to do and he hadn't brought any with him so she has him all to herself for hours on end for the first time since that night on his fire escape.

It's magical. She laughs more than she had since she'd been in New York, talks more about less serious things, finds herself teasing him in ways she doesn't tease anyone else, and then she tells him about Brian and feels it all slip away because even as she sobs, even as he strokes her hair, she knows he isn't a gentleman but he might be her prince and Brian, Brian wasn't even close.

He's gentle, patient, willing to explain even as she begs him to stop talking and just listen, tries to tell him that she and Brian weren't anything, were hardly an infatuation, but he wants her to try because Brian is here, because Brian might, she isn't sure what Brian might be but he isn't Will and she tries to tell him that. She tries to tell him as he holds her, soothes her, promises things she can't let herself believe.

She stays the night, hand fisted in his shirt refusing to let go because she can't stem the tide of her tears, and so she the next morning she watches him pack his bag for the airport silent and dry eyed. He offers to pay for the room for another night, but she doesn't want to be here without him and so they leave together, stand together at the curb until she can force herself to let go of his hand and turn away. She can't watch him go.

 

She writes him, calmly, numbly at first but then more frantically until he responds, politely, gently but with only a single inquiry. How were things with Brian?

She's done with Brian. She's done with Brian except for when he calls in the middle of the night, a little drunk, a little desperate, sounding too much like she does in her letters to Will; she doesn't want to think about the phone messages she's left.

 

She finishes out the term. Attends her graduation, smiles in all her photos despite the fact she can't help but think of the message she had left for Will the night before. She'd been a little wasted, drunk off the alcohol Steven had so kindly supplied not knowing that after Brian she only ever drank alone so when she inexplicably ended up calling Will she didn't have to explain her behavior to her friends in the morning.

“Hi Will, it's me. I know I should stop calling you. I should stop getting drunk and calling you but Stevie bought me a bottle of scotch to celebrate. I'm graduating tomorrow. I thought you might want to know, you were always- I thought you might want to know, that's all.”

Her parents were thrilled, more about her diploma, than her actual degree but they were proud, they were always proud, she never did anything to risk their approval. Even when she tells them she had accepted the offer from NYU and wouldn't be extending her time at Cambridge she tells her father first knowing he'll understand when she says she misses the city even if her mother, later, doesn't. 

 

She spends two years at NYU, takes summer internships that let her keep her apartment in the city. She avoids the dorms, some of her old haunts, but for the most part it's easier for her to avoid his ghost than she thought it would be.

She stops calling him when she discovers he's no longer with the DA’s office. No one will tell her where he's gone. She can't blame them, press badge or not no one's going to believe she has one unless she shows up in person and she isn't about to do that. She still writes him though, short updates only, the sort of thing she sends her parents. She tells him about her latest work project, tells him she's seen his name come across the desk, asked how long he had been in DC. 

Most of the letters come back undeliverable but she keeps trying. By now she's used to running from the ache in her chest she can't quite shake. She should let him go, but the not knowing keeps her hanging on.

 

The Peabody was a happy accident, a lucky break on a story that happened to gain national attention. She spends the hours after the award ceremony crying into a bottle of beer. Her mother had called, as late as it was in the UK, to congratulate her, but it had been the same line she always heard, the same unintentional comparison to her sister's PhD, the award her brother had won last month. She had wanted someone to ask her how she felt about it so she could tell them she wasn't sure. He would have asked.

 

She's sitting in the newsroom waiting for approval on copy she had written for a segment when she sees him on one of the monitors. It takes her a moment to realize what she's looking at. It's Will, not as a mouthpiece for some conservative think tank like she might have expected, but as a legal correspondent. Two years later she's sitting in the same spot, numb and exhausted, watching him anchor the ACN coverage on 9/11.

She sees him sporadically after that, catches glimpses of his broadcasts, but misses most of his rise to ACN’s top anchor, tries to ignore it as best she can, but she's seen more than she'd realized, when Charlie Skinner shows up, sliding carelessly onto the barstool beside her.

“Drinking alone?”

“Always.” She swallows down the last of her beer and she signals for another. “I saw you in the bullpen the other day. Someone said you work for a news network.”

“Charlie Skinner.” He doesn't bother holding out his hand, he barely glances at her, instead he just keeps talking, drowning out the arguments she doesn't have time to form. “I run one. I've been looking for you. One of my anchors needs a new EP.”

“I'm hardly,” Mac brushes him aside. “I just started as a Senior Producer on our morning broadcast.”

“What if I offered you a promotion?”

“I couldn't accept in good-”

“Will McAvoy is moving to the eight o’clock hour. You're wasting away mopping up the morning crowd at eleven. Come work for me on a real news broadcast.”

She stares at him a little slack jawed. “Will-”

“I know the two of you know each other.” Charlie cuts in before she can say anything else, seemingly, she gets the sense, to avoid the soap opera version of whatever sort of relationship she and Will had had.

“It's a little more complicated than that. I haven't heard from him in years and not for lack of trying. I doubt he wants anything to do with me.”

“I think you might be surprised.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.” She takes a swig of her beer, suddenly aware of the feeling of her phone burning a hole in her pocket.

She needed to leave, needed to stop drinking. It had been years since she called him, but she has his number now, she had looked him up in the office directory, had programed the number in her phone. She shouldn't have done that. It had been easier when she'd needed cash for a pay phone, had to have the number memorized, the phone plugged into the jack.

“I think you're exactly the person I need, MacKenzie.” The sound of her name startles her enough that she listens to the rest of his argument, lets him extract a tentative yes, takes his number because why the hell not. He had bought her a beer, and then a second. She'd taken guys’ numbers, given them hers for far less.

She lets him talk her into a maybe and then she goes home and dumps her bottle of whiskey down the drain, throws back several glasses of water, and crawls into bed.

Will was out of town next week. Charlie had mentioned it in passing, something about a panel. She could tour the AWM offices, turn Charlie down, politely, and move on with her life without worrying about him pestering her, because even half drunk she knew enough to know he wasn't going to leave her alone if she didn't at least make a show. She could manage faking a smile for a few hours. It's been years since she'd had to play at fawning enthusiasm, but she could manage.

She ends up having to cancel the appointment she had set up for Tuesday and shows up on Thursday instead. She knows there's a rumor going around the office that someone's trying to poach her, but she's ignoring the pointed questions the same way she ignores the comments about her Peabody nomination. 

Charlie doesn't bother with the same spiel as before, in fact he hardly speaks to her. Instead he introduces her to one of the interns and lets her wander around the edit bay, the studio, the newsroom, which is how she ends up standing in the middle of the bullpen staring at Will.

“Will,” she breathes out when she looks up to see him standing there and for a second it feels like everything has stopped. He wasn't supposed to be here. She had seen him on TV the night before in Nebraska. He should have still been there, but it's obvious now she had miscalculated at some point.

“MacKenzie.” He looks surprised, a little confused, a little pale like maybe he's seen a ghost but that could be the lack of makeup. She's so used to seeing him on TV now that it may have skewed her memory of him.

“Hi, Will. It's nice to see you.” She tries again, manages to pull a smile back onto her face. “It's been awhile.”

“Charlie mentioned,” he frowns a bit. “I thought he was drunk off his ass.”

“He might have been,” Mac confesses, finds her smile growing into something more genuine. “He's quite persistent.”

“Where did he find you?”

“Under a rock,” she shrugs, laughing softly when she sees she's surprised him. “NBC.”

He tries to look surprised at that, but she can tell that he had known for awhile where she was. 

“Another Peabody?” He asks, trying to cover for himself and she lets him off the hook, shrugs as if to say, it doesn't matter, and he frowns. “I know not yet, but the nomination.”

“Yeah,” she scuffs her toe on the floor, uses it as an excuse to look away.

“My office?”

She shrugs again, looks around. “Sure.”

 

There's a part of her that's surprised he doesn't try and sell her on it. He knows she's here for a job. He must have some say over who Charlie hires but he gestures towards a chair and leans back against his desk beside her. “You look like you have questions.”

“They're ridiculous.” She shakes her head, waves a hand, but he's not buying it, not for a second.

“I've never heard you ask a ridiculous question.”

“You've heard me as lots of ridiculous questions. Particularly about sports as I recall.”

He chuckles because she isn't wrong, but he isn't backing down. “You were learning.”

“I was faking it.” She counters immediately, grinning despite the fact she knows her cheeks have pinked. 

“What time do you finish at NBC?” He asks with a smirk that suggests he knows exactly what she's thinking.

“Depends on the day.”

“Today?”

“I wasn't planning on going back to the office of that's what you're asking.”

“There's a rundown meeting in half an hour. You should sit in. See what you think. Stay for the broadcast. Anne will probably bow down and kiss the ground you walk on if you jump in. She’s sick of me.” He explains.

“I'm not,” she starts hoping he'll listen when Charlie hadn't. “experienced enough to run a show, especially not one as-”

“How old are you?” He cuts in and she stumbles in her assertion. 

“Twenty eight.”

“You have plenty of experience.”

“In life?” She frowns, shakes her head at him. He looks like he's taking her seriously, sounds like he's taking her seriously, but she can't help thinking he's being flippant.

“Anne can't wait to crawl under the rock you'd vacate by taking her job, but I'm sure we can entice her to stay until you've realized that I'm right.”

 

There's ten minutes left in the broadcast and she can see that Will had been right. Anne’s anxious to get off the air. She can tell Will's getting aggregated with the guest but she's making it worst yaking in his ear. He wouldn't have been as irritable if Anne hadn't insisted they put a celebrity news segment in the broadcast. He had been bored out of his mind, reading the copy with a look borne only by the long suffering.

“I've got this.” She says to Anne when she can't stand watching what feels like a slow motion train wreck any longer. “I’ll count him back in.”

Anne shrugs, stepping back with a glance at Charlie who nods, gesturing for them to continue with what Mac can only describe as a look of satisfaction.

“Will it's Mac,” she jumps in when they cut to a package. “Wait till we cut to commercial to strangle him with his own tie. It’ll cost the network twice as much if you do it on the air.”

She sees Anne wince as Will looks directly at the camera and scowls and she realizes no one here has seen him joke around. Sure the signs are subtler than they had been, but there's no doubt he's covering a smile.

“Behave yourself for the rest of the broadcast and I'll owe you a drink.”

“Yes, mom.” He throws back, voice warm, and she laughs, startling Anne who looks utterly bewildered.

She counts him in and he ends the interview, segueing to the commercial break without comment from her. He finishes the F-block, and signs off, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Still wondering if NBC is a better fit?” Will asks from the studio door as she leaves the control room.

“I have to give two weeks notice.”

“All right.” He shrugs, falling into step beside her as she reaches the bullpen, “Stop by after work and hang out with Anne.”

“You mean save you from her.” She corrects, as his office door snaps shut behind her.

“Other way around.” He insists with the grin she's been waiting all night to see. “She's not a bad EP.”

“She just lacks a sense of humor?” Mac supplies but he shakes his head, looks directly at her. 

“It's not Anne’s fault she isn't you.”

“Will,” she hardly knows what to say to that and she wonders if that had been the point. “You, I- You must have had a decent EP in the last two and a half years.”

“Decent, conforming with generally accepted standards.” Will rattles off and she has to make an effort not to roll her eyes. 

“We've never set foot in the same studio. You can't possibly know-”

“That was the best ten minutes I've had on air since my first night in DC, six years ago.”

“Will.” She means to be sharp with him, tell him to be serious for a few minutes but he's obviously enjoying himself, throwing his tie over the back of his chair, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Why? If,”

“If?” He asks, growing serious when she doesn't respond. “MacKenzie.”

“Why haven't I heard from you? If you wanted me here, why haven't-”

“You were moving on.” He says it gently, like he knows she isn't going to want hear it, but like he has to say it anyway.

“I was not.” She says it so explosively she surprises herself, wincing at how angry she sounds. “I leave the office and walk straight into the first first open bar I can find.”

“Not every day.”

“On enough days. Give me another six months. I'll be a perfectly functional alcoholic.”

“Mac,” he sighs leaning back against his desk, waiting until she takes a step closer to continue. “You're twenty eight with two Peabodys. You're not giving yourself enough credit.”

“One.” She corrects automatically despite the fact there's no trace of malice in his assertion.

“One and a half.” He says firmly with a look that suggests she would be better off not arguing.

“You didn't answer my question.” She counters instead. “It's not like you to be evasive.”

“No,” He offers her a weary smile. “I didn't. If I had called you, would you have showed up this afternoon? Would you have showed up knowing I had decided to take an earlier flight instead of spending the weekend out of town as, I assume Charlie informed you, I had intended?”

Yes, she wants to say but his eyebrows have crept up. “You never answered any of my calls.”

“I never disconnected the number.”

“You could have picked up once. You could have answered once. You could have picked up that one time.”

“And said what, hi MacKenzie, I'm madly in love with you but as far as you know I've been ignoring you for the last three, four, five years?”

“You could have said-” She fishes around for something to fill in the blank, something that might have made her feel better. “You could have told me to move on.”

“I did.” He reminds her. “Standing on the sidewalk outside my hotel. You were trying so hard to be brave, trying not to cry. You couldn't look at me, but you stood there and waited with me.”

“I know.” Mac swallows. She's having a hard time looking at him now. “You told me Brian was young but I shouldn't hold that against him. You were trying to tell me you felt the same way about me weren't you?”

“I wouldn't have minded waiting, but that week, watching you run around town, laughing, I realized how selfish I was being. You would have come back to New York for me. It would have turned you serious. We would have sucked all that joy out of you.”

“You could never-” She protests but she knows what he means. It wouldn’t have been intentional. He would have loved her, but she had been young, so much younger than she had realized at the time. She would have slowly unintentionally attached herself to his career, not in any major way, but in all in all the small ones. It could have suffocated her.

“I came back to New York for you anyway.” She says it quietly, almost hesitantly, like he might prefer to pretend she hadn’t said anything, like she might have preferred not to say anything.

“Not just for me.” He tells her softly, reaching over to brush his hand lightly on the arm, his touch electric, the feeling burning through her sleeve, against her skin, and she almost has to stop herself from wincing. 

“I’ll take the job.” She says it firmly, because he had been right about that, she hated NBC, liked the thought of working with him, “but,”

“We’re different people now.” He supplies for her and she nods, staring down at her hands. She’s going to have to look at him eventually, going to have to say the words herself, but right now she can’t. She doesn’t want to see what he thinks of that, of her.

“It’s all right, Mac.” He’s tells her gently, earnestly, but she thinks perhaps he’s only placating her, trying not to hurt her by pointing out she’s turned into a careless harpie, because how else could she explain. She had just told him she had come here for him, to the city and to ACN, and now she was rebuffing him.

“I could have left a message with my answering service. You could have heard it when you called.” He continues and she shakes her head emphatically.

“Will, no-”

“I hurt you, Mac.” He cuts in. “The world may have- but I deserve the blame for at least that much.”

“If I hadn’t,” she’s trying to backpedal, trying not to sound like she’s excusing him, because he had been right about her before, but he had been wrong about Brian.

“Mac.” This time his touch is firmer, lingers longer. “We don’t have to hash this out today or even this week. If I can wait two weeks to stop reporting on Colin Farrell and his sex tape or whatever else Anne digs up, I can wait for you to decide what you want.”

“I know,” she starts to protest, but she doesn’t need to look at him, doesn’t need to see herself in the mirror to know that he’s telling the truth. She knew what she wanted, that hadn’t changed, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. She had spent years wanting to see him and now he was here, sitting beside her, waiting for her to say something that wasn’t a half truth and she wasn’t sure she could, not yet. “Maybe we could go for a drink.”

“There’s a juice bar around the corner.” He says and she hears him laugh, feels his hand on her arm. “They’re open late.”

**Author's Note:**

> In theory, this piece was supposed to get this universe out of my head so I could get back to the other longer AUs I've been working on, but in practice... there's so much potential, so we'll see how that goes.


End file.
